I had the weirdest experience last week. The short of it is, I went out and had a drink with a girl I met at my bar after work. The long of it is, it turned out to be the strangest and most awkward situation that ended up with her calling an Uber for herself at the end of the night. I always tell myself “Don’t shit where you eat” and up until that night I thought that meant don’t date your co-workers, but alas I have a new definition for that saying.
April and her friends kept coming back to my bar last week at this show. To protect the innocent, I will not name the place I work at, or the name of the show they saw, but it was clear to me at the beginning of the night that this girl was trying to work me. It had been awhile since I had even kissed a girl up until last Thursday night, so I went with it, and when her and her friends asked me what my ideal girl was, I quoted a line from a blog I wrote last week. I said “27-35, dark hair, light eyes and hopefully enough of a hot mess to compliment my hot mess.”
Just because I have a type doesn’t mean I always stick to it, but after I stated what my particular wants are in a girl, I noticed that she didn’t come back to the bar for the rest of the night. At one point, I saw her come out of one of the doors in the venue, spotted me talking to a co-worker, then she IMMEDIATELY went back inside the theater as if she saw a ghost. It was quite odd to witness that happen but I just figured, who cares and I went back to work.
At the end of the night, I was coming down the stairs as she was coming up the stairs. I spotted her and said hello, and she seemed really receptive so I asked her if she wanted to get a drink next door at the bar. She agreed and we walked out of my work, half a block to the bar and sat down and ordered a drink. Her friends told us they were on their way to meet us so I figured, I’ll have one drink with her, say goodnight and maybe give her my number in case SHE felt the desire to call ME. April was pretty, aged somewhere in her thirties with dark hair and light eyes, but even though that kind of matched the description I gave to her and her friends earlier that night, something was off.
We’re sitting at the bar, and she is clearly inebriated. I start wondering where her friends are and should we be drinking these beers at all. I was on my first, and I could tell she was on her fourth or fifth or sixth for all I know. She started accusing me, in a playful tone might I add of “working it” to get tips.
“You’re just doing this to get more tips” She slurred.
Now, it’s true that I am a bartender and part of, if not almost ALL of my income depends on the tips I get, but A. I wasn’t working now, and B. I PAID for these two beers so what the fuck is she talking about?
This is when I started to see the red flags. In addition to her thinking I was trying to work it for money, she went on to ask me how old I was.
“I’m 39.” I stated confidently
She was taken aback by that statement. She then continued with her extremely self sabotaging ruse and tells me she was embarrassed earlier because she is 36, and thought I was 28 and that she didn’t fall into the category of women that I normally date, plus, up until that moment, she thought SHE was robbing the cradle so to speak. Now all the red flags started to pop up with every other sentence that came out of her mouth like a pinball hitting a target.
I should have gotten up and left the moment she told me she was divorced, but her friends were nowhere in sight, and at this point I couldn’t leave her all by herself in a drunken state at a bar in Korea Town, so we went outside to have a cigarette, hopefully find her friends so she could go home, and then I would continue with my after work ritual of stopping at a Denny’s because I was especially hungry that night.
Outside on the patio we sat next to white girl with glasses who told us she was from the ghetto in Pasadena which was surprising to me considering Pasadena is a predominately well off city in Los Angeles. She was also dating the black bouncer who was currently putting a customer in a headlock while she was putting coins into baggies like a drug dealer would package up his cocaine to sell. I remarked at how odd this situation was, and I offered to drive April home after witnessing what I thought was a bar fight, but actually turned out to be two dudes who knew each other just fucking around. April goes on to tell me that she feels a little better about our situation since I am older than her, I am acting like a gentleman, and we both used to live in Seattle. She is definitely still drunk though, and I suggest we leave just to make sure she gets home ok since at this point her friends never showed up and have apparently ditched her and left her in the company of a bartender she met about a hour ago.
“Let’s get another drink.” She says.
I know its probably not a good idea, but I say ok, and I drive us up the street to another bar I used to go to after work. There we meet some latino guy named J.T. who buys us a french connection, and then cheers us and leaves the two of us alone at the bar. What a nice gesture, I think to myself. Free drinks are always a positive, and over the next fifteen minutes April begins to loosen up a bit more, make out with me in at the bar, and start tugging at my the belt loop on my pants making me think that there is a small possibility that they may come off at some point in the night.
“You want to get out of here?” I ask knowing that her answer is going to be yes.
“Yes.” She responds.
So I head to the bathroom real quick, ask J.T. to keep an eye on her, and when I return from the bathroom I leave a couple dollars on the bar and we head out.
“I should probably take you home.” I say
I ask her for her address, type it into my phone and then like a good boy I do the responsible thing and start driving to her place in Silverlake. Not one minute into the ride, she asks where we are going.
“I’m taking you home.” I say
“Let’s go to your place.” She says with a tone that makes me change my mind, AND the direction we are headed.
Now look, I knew in that moment there was a possibility that this was going to turn out to be the worst idea all night, but in the back of my mind, I’m thinking, I haven’t gotten laid in awhile, and this is starting to look like an opportunity for me to do exactly that. Somewhere deep inside my brain I know that it’s not going to work out that way, and that taking home an insecure girl who’s friends left her at a bar with a stranger who she thought was 9 years younger than her earlier that night is a HUGE red flag, but like an idiot, I ignored my gut instinct and we headed back to my place.
We enter my apartment, I put on some music and she grabs me and pulls me down on top of her onto my couch and starts making out and grinding on me until something odd causes her to stop everything.
“You put on Taylor Swift??” She asks with an obvious distaste in her statement.
“This isn’t Taylor Swift, It’s Rilo Kiley.” I said.
“I can’t believe we’re listening to Taylor Swift.” She says.
“This ISN’T Taylor Swift!” I snap at her.
Now I’m getting a little pissed. She’s insulting my intelligence, and I need to remind her that she’s the one who has been drinking since 8pm, and I’m the one who drove us to my apartment and then put on a playlist which I made two years ago called “Songs To Make Out To” cause that’s what we are doing, and I KNOW I didn’t put any TS on that mix. And who cares if I did? Taylor Swift isn’t that bad anyway.
She begrudgingly accepts the fact that this song isn’t who she thought it was, and we continue to make out until she starts to take off my clothes, which leaves me laying there in nothing but my underwear, and her in her black silky one piece jumper which apparently takes the place of a bra and underwear nowadays.
I offer her a non alcoholic drink, but she insists on ordering what’s left of my tequila with some tonic. I get up, start to make the drink for her, and then she starts insulting me from the living room.
“What you wearing?” She antagonistically says to me.
I’m wearing red CK briefs because I’m almost forty years old and the last time I wore boxers was back in the 1990’s when I was a teenager. As I got older, I stopped liking boxers because they ride up my ass, so I switched to fashion briefs. You know, black, or blue or red or sometimes green $20 pairs of underwear that Marty McFly was wearing in the movie Back to The Future? However I don’t remember Marty McFly being harassed for wearing the same kind of underwear that I am. This is starting to piss me off. Don’t come into MY world and start complaining about the music you THINK I put on, and the banana hammock I choose to wear under my pants since I was 29 years old.
I can not believe I have to defend my choice of underwear. I don’t even want to fuck this girl now because I get the feeling she will probably start whining about it at some point during the night. I have never been in a situation like this before, and as I make my way back over to the couch in my “horrific” CK briefs that I love wearing, I start to look for a way out of this debacle.
“What time do you work tomorrow?” I ask her politely.
She has to be up at 6am. I look at the clock and it is clearly after 3, and I know what needs to happen. I need to wrap this up, and when I say that, I mean the situation and not my cock because I am so turned off by her now that even as she continues to force me to make out with her, I’m doing it with my eyes open, watching the time until it hits quarter after 3 and I tell her it’s time for her to go. She’s an ok kisser, but I just don’t think it’s worth it anymore.
I say to her I’ll be right back, and then I’ll drive her home. A minute later I emerge from my bedroom wearing some quick clothes I just threw on, and I’m soooo looking forward to dropping her off, then dropping by the Jack in the Box down the street for food because as I forgot two hours ago, I am STILL really hungry. I come out wearing adidas pants and a t-shirt I cut the sleeves off of, pretty much what I wear to the gym every day.
“What’s with that outift?” she says to me as she is trying to fit back into her BCBG skinny jeans.
That’s it! I’ve had enough of this chick. I don’t even want to know why she is being such a fucking weirdo at this point, I just want her out of my house. My cat looks on from the hallway waiting to see if the coast is clear for her to come back in, but April’s insensitivity to my clothes, my music, and my decision to drive her home keep my cat far away form the living room.
“You ready to go? ” I ask her
“I called an Uber” she said
Wait, I was going to drive her home, or at least pay for the Uber she is about to get into, but before I say anything about that I figure to myself…..why would I continue to act like a nice guy at this point? Why would I offer to sit in a car with her for another twenty minutes when all she has done throughout the night is project her insecurities on to me, and then insult my choice of clothing and style of music?
I don’t say a word. I’ll let her get home all by herself because at this point the only thing I want more than her out of my apartment is a jumbo jack with cheese and a large order of curly fries.
As April is waiting for her Uber to arrive, I notice what appears to be a silver button that fell on the floor. I pick it up and it says BCBG on it. Clearly, this is not mine as I don’t own anything from BCBG, in addition to the fact that it is a women’s clothing store.
“I think this is yours” I say to her as I hand her the silver accessory and then notice that her jeans are missing a few of these “button snaps” or whatever the fuck you call them.
“That’s not mine” She says.
“Yes it is.” I say.
“No, it’s not.” She snaps at me.
What the fuck is up with this girl? What do you mean this isn’t yours? This is OBVIOUSLY yours since you are wearing black BCBG jeans, you can’t button them because the button is missing and is currently sitting on my coffee table. And by the way, no one else has been to my apartment and taken off and put back on their pants in the exact spot where I just noticed this thing sitting. And….now she’s calling me a liar!
After a few minutes of complete silence, April’s Uber arrives and I offer to walk her down to the front door, which she immediately says I don’t have to do, but I do anyway. We make our way down the stairs and she is startled and stops dead in her tracks when she sees a shirtless neighbor of mine waiting for the elevator.
“Come on, you’ll be fine. He’s probably wearing boxers under those pants.” I say sarcastically.
I walk her past the elevator, out the front door to my apartment and ask the Uber driver to make sure she gets home alright. She gets into the car, and as I go to say goodnight, she closes the door on my face before I could tell her to text me when she gets home. Unbelievable! What the hell did I do so wrong?
As the Uber takes April out of my life, it hits me… I never gave her my phone number, and I don’t have hers. I smile because this is my way out, and probably the best thing that could have happened at the end of the night. Most likely I’ll never see her again, which is fine with me because I would never WANT to see her again. I’m sure she’ll tell her friends that I was an asshole, so to combat that, I wrote this blog about how much of a weirdo she was.
As I return home from Jack in the Crack with my dinner, I look down and see the back of the other silver button that April claimed wasn’t hers to begin with. I still have them for some reason, but before I throw them in the trash with my empty bag of fast food I snap a picture to remember this night and what to never do again.
I always thought “Don’t shit where you eat (or drink)” meant don’t date the people you work with because it causes drama. Now I’m starting to think it means something more like “don’t go out for a drink with a drunk chick I met at work who has issues that she hides behind by being catty, unreasonable, casually mocking my choice of clothing and calling me a liar at the end of the night after I offer to drive her home or pay for a car service.”
Thanks for clearing that up universe. Lesson learned.